


Call Waiting

by CaffieneKitty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Friendship, Gen, John would rather have something to shoot, M/M, POV John Watson, Phone Calls & Telephones, Present Tense, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-31
Updated: 2011-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-30 06:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffieneKitty/pseuds/CaffieneKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't wait well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Stream of consciousness thing. May be confusing. I don't know.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own and did not originate these characters or this world.  
>  _Originally posted on Livejournal March 31, 2011_

John is waiting. He doesn't know what the news will be -- dead, alive, never found again, no closure -- doesn't know if his world will change again now, or if this will be just another blip, something to be scolded over and forgotten. It's the first time though that he's truly realised that certain news, that certain specific people no longer being alive would indeed change his life. Make it less. So much less.

The room is closing in on him as he paces its breadth. It's not a waiting room. It's not a police station. It's home, which should be safe (for values of safe including body parts and chemicals), comforting (as the ear-jangling shriek of a midnight violin), and secure (regardless of the array of weaponry that inexplicably turns up and his own abduction on his own doorstep). It isn't. Not while he's waiting. It's a prison.

"Go home," they'd said. "Nothing you can do. We'll call if there's news." He's never hated a silent phone more. He's never felt so useless and alone. He would have stayed, nothing would have made him go home, except that he knew he wasn't helping by being underfoot. Forty eight hours awake, searching, hoping. He'd staggered into one of the multitude of sergeants milling around, trying to be something he wasn't, trying to see something he couldn't, trying to help, and failing.

_Go home. Sleep. Nothing you can do._

Sleep. There was a time all he could do was sleep. He felt the grey fog of worthlessness cresting in the back of his mind, ready to curl over him again, drag him under again, turn him back into the broken shade he was before his world changed. Waiting for his world to change back.

_Nothing you can do. Nothing._

His mobile rang.

\- - -  
(that's all.)

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's open-ended. That's what it wanted to be.


End file.
